The Rogue (10 page)

Oh, well. She asked, “What now?”

“We get something in this wee one’s belly and then secure the dead.”

“Secure the dead?”

“Aye, in what’s left of the barn. There are just too many slain for me to bury.” He looked none to happy about the task as he bent and picked up what he’d dropped. ‘Twas, she saw, a bright orange rooster.

Birdi cautiously followed Angus down the village road to the river’s edge. With her gaze locked on his broad back, she stumbled over an auld man, his face a mask of agony and his chest a gaping wound. Hand over her heart she murmured, “Blessed Mother of All.”

Ten feet later she tripped again, this time over a woman her own age. Birdi bent, closed the woman’s vacant eyes, and without thought righted the basket at her side. It contained folded linens. The poor lass had been doing a simple chore when the butchers had cut her down. How could anyone be so cruel...so heartless?

Minnie had had her faults—too many to count—but she’d been right about one matter; this world beyond the glen was not for the likes of her.

At the river’s edge Angus handed her the babe and a bucket. “Tend the wee one while I tend to the dead.”

Cradling the fussing babe she murmured, “Be careful.”

He surprised her by stroking her cheek. “Are ye all right, Birdi?”

She wasn’t, not in the least, but she said, “Aye. Go and do what needs be done.”

“If ye see or hear anything untoward, yell, and I’ll come at a run.”

She looked down at the babe in her arms. “He’s too young to be orphaned.”

Angus lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. “‘Tis never a good age to be orphaned, but ye managed and so shall he.”

With that Angus left and Birdi settled on the bank. Using her fingers, she nervously dripped water into the babe’s gaping mouth. Initially, he was none to happy about the taste, but he grew accustomed and eventually sucked on her fingers. As he did, her heart raced with the flush of maternal success. Caring for a babe wasn’t so hard after all.

As the babe suckled she studied his almost white curls, wee perfect fingers, and dimpled arms. Warmth—the likes of which she’d never experienced before—filled her. He was such a bonnie lad. One who—with the proper guidance and love—could grow up to be a good man.

She heaved a sigh. Who would care for this precious bairn?

Something bleated in Birdi’s ear. “Ack!” She jumped nigh a foot, startling the babe.

As she soothed him with pats on the back, Angus chuckled, “Look what I found hiding in the barn...A nanny goat. ‘Twas probably too fast for the bastards to catch.” He grunted in satisfaction as he tied it to a nearby post. “We now have milk for our wee lad.”

Birdi edged closer to study the gray, shaggy beast. It stank and had horizontal slits in its eyes. Horrified that Angus expected her to place the precious babe against one of the beast’s teats, she clutched the babe tightly to her chest. “Ye cannot be serious?”

“Aye.”

She shook her head and inched away.

Angus made a thick “humphing” sound in the back of his throat. “Have ye not handled a goat before?”

“Nay.” She’d never even seen one before. Oh, she’d heard one a time or two when she’d been summoned to the village, but—

“‘Tis easy. Watch.” She eased closer as Angus squatted and placed the bucket between the bleating beastie’s legs. He reached under the nanny with both hands and grumbled, “Starting at the top, ye squeeze yer fingers down in sequence, like so. Do one hand then the other.” Hearing a rhythmic squish, squish, squish—milk hitting the bottom of the bucket—Birdi heaved a relieved sigh. Angus hadn’t expected her to put the babe to teat, after all. Just take the milk out of the goat. That she could do.

Angus placed the bucket beside her. “This should do for now. Once the babe is satisfied, ye can lay him down and milk the goat again.” He rose and left her to flounder on her own.

With a good bit of fussing and choking, the babe finally drank his fill of goat milk. When he fell asleep in her arms, Birdi rose and sought out the basket she’d tripped over.

The dead woman’s body was gone but the basket remained. Propping it against her free hip, Birdi moved out of the path of the drifting, acrid smoke. Settled in the shade of what turned out to be an old elm, she went through the basket’s contents and found scraps of soft linen, a wee tunic, a man’s shirt, an apron, and a kirtle. Tears welled in her eyes. The woman whose eyes she’d closed might well have been the babe’s minnie.

Ack, ye poor laddie.

Birdi, at least, had had her mother until she was of an age where she could feed and tend herself. And she had memories. Most had faded away but some still remained. If asked, she could still describe her mother. Black-headed, green-eyed, and thin. Painfully thin.

She made a pallet on the bottom of the basket with the shirt and apron and then laid the babe down to examine him more fully. Ugh, the poor wee thing was filthy.

The babe finally tended—’twas indeed a laddie—she stared at the gray and brown lump that was the goat. “‘Tis now yer turn.”

The goat, apparently no happier than she about the prospect of milking, bucked and pulled at its rope each time Birdi placed the bucket beneath it. After a sixth try, her patience snapped. She grabbed the beast by the ears, glared into its evil-looking eyes, and hissed, “If ye dinna want to be stew in the next few minutes, ye nasty creature, ye’d best heel.” To her utter amazement the nanny froze. 

“Humph.”

She set the bucket beneath the nanny again and gingerly reached for one of its swollen teats. Milking, she discovered, wasn’t as easy as the Canteran claimed.

After innumerable grumbled curses, Birdi finally eked out enough milk for the babe’s next meal. Bucket in hand, she returned to the shade of the tree to find the babe, its thumb in its mouth, still fast asleep.

She settled beside him and stroked a pudgy arm. “What a lovely wee bit ye are...” She didn’t ken his name.

That wouldn’t do. He needed a new name, one mayhap not as fair as his mother had given him, but one he could grow into. One that might bring good fortune. She discarded several she’d heard over the years—Ian, John, Peter, and Robbie—wanting something that better called to mind power, thoughtfulness, and grace.

She was pulled from her musing by now familiar footsteps, and looked up to find a mass of scarlet before her. “Is all done?” she asked.

Angus, reeking of soot and the metallic stench of blood, collapsed at her side. “Aye. One and thirty now lie in the barn.”

He’d laid the dead out with as much dignity as possible, said a prayer over them, and then nailed a makeshift cross to the propped door. Using a piece of charred wood, he’d written in Latin,
Herein lie the dearly departed of Ardlui, slain by unknown hands. May God have mercy on their souls.
He’d then signed his name.

Needing to touch something vital, alive, Angus reached into the basket and stroked the wee one’s pudgy arms. “I canna help but wonder what would drive a man to commit such horrors. I’ve fought for my clan and for my king—killed more men than I have digits—but never have I slain a bairn or woman. Good God, I dinna ken this.”

Birdi placed her hand over his. “Angus, I dinna ken the why either, but this one still lives and we need be thankful for that.”

Angus blinked in surprise. Birdi had tried to console him and had finally called him by name. Feeling inordinately pleased, though why he should be he didn’t know, he turned his attention back to the charred ruins of Ardlui. “We need leave this place. ‘Tis not safe.” In his experience, disease followed death like a tax collector followed a full purse.

“I’ll be most glad to go.” Birdi lifted the sleeping babe from the basket and settled him on her shoulder. Handing Angus a bundle, she whispered, “They’re nappies. We need also take the goat.”

Angus came to his feet and heaved a resigned sigh. He now had only a fortnight and a week to find a pagan howdie-wife and a sacred well, break a handfast, find a home for a wee orphan, find one for Birdi, court a wife, and beat it back to Blackstone. All while hauling a fractious goat.

God help him.

~#~

An hour later, Birdi, still fretting over what would become of the babe in her arms, heard a familiar soft cooing in the trees to her right. Did her doves still come to her croft looking for crumbs? Had the titmice taken over her bedding and grain stores? Had her precious apples already started to rot?

“Angus, where is yer home?”

“The village of Drasmoor.”

“And where is this?” Tinker hadn’t mentioned it.

“On the west coast, on the Firth of Lorne.”

“Tis far?”

“Aye, six days’ ride away.”

“Ah, and do ye pass Aberfoyle to get there?” ‘Twas where Tinker had said he was heading.

“Nay. Aberfoyle is far to the north, and we’re headed west.”

“Oh.” ‘Twas not what she wanted to hear. “Have ye a croft in this Drasmoor?” Mayhap if he did have a comfy croft, he’d understand her craving for her home.

“Nay, I live in Castle Blackstone at the pleasure of my liege, Duncan MacDougall and his wife.”

“Oh.” This man at her back must be of some import. This could be good or bad. “Tell me about this castle.”

“Blackstone rests on a wee island in Drasmoor Bay. My liege started construction some ten years back, shortly after the plague swept through our village and a vast number of our clan perished. He built Blackstone on an isle so that should the plague return, he could keep our sept safe.”

Sept
—Angus had used the word before. It apparently meant clan.

Birdi had trouble picturing an entire clan living under one roof. Wouldn’t the women be at each others’ throats over what cooked in the ingle-nook? “How many are in your clan—sept?”

“At last count, there were over one hundred.”

She craned her neck to look at him. “Ye must be sleeping twenty to a bed!” She’d have no part in that!

Angus, his blue eyes suddenly sparkling, crinkles forming at the far corners, chuckled. “Nay, most live in the village of Drasmoor or up in the hills. Just a few, like myself and the Silversteins, live with our liege and his family in Blackstone.”

“Oh.” She tore her gaze from his nicely shaped lips just as Rampage bucked and the goat bleated. Kenning what would happen next, she tightened her grip on the sleeping babe.

Angus kicked Rampage in the side for the umpteenth time; the horse snorted, frog-hopped, and then trotted a few jarring steps before settling again into a sedate walk.

All back to normal, she asked, “And what does this castle look like?” She hoped Angus the Canteran had Tinker’s talent for painting pictures in her mind.

“‘Tis big, takes up most of the isle, and is square and made of dark gray granite. It appears black in the rain.”

She waited, hoping for more. When he remained silent she arched her neck and frowned up at him. “And the inside?”

He scratched his chin. “‘Tis like most castles. There’s a bailey, a well, barracks for the unwed men, a kirk, sheds for the cattle, a smitty.”

Birdi heaved an exasperated sigh. “Inside, where the people live, MacDougall.”

“Oh. In the keep there’s a great hall with fireplaces at either end. We eat there. Above are storage rooms and sleeping quarters.”

When Angus fell silent again, Birdi fought the overwhelming urge to clout his ears scarlet. “Is there colored glass and tapestries within?” Tinker’s descriptions had made her heart race with the desire to see and touch all that Tinker had. “Are there shimmering golden chalices and huge pewter plates? Are there argent-backed mirrors? Is there a great stuffed elk on the wall?” Angus the Canteran was a pitiful storyteller.

He chuckled. “Blackstone is not so wealthy that it has colored glass and chalices of gold, but there are mounted heads and horns aplenty, and ‘tis bonnie now that Lady Beth has come.”

Ah. “And this Lady Beth? Is she fair?”

Before he could answer, their horse bucked, the goat bleated, and Angus again cursed and kicked. When they were finally moving in sedate fashion again, she murmured, “Lady Beth?”

Birdi had met only one lady, the Macarther’s wife, and hadn’t liked the brittle woman who took her frustrations out on those beneath her. After tending a lass of only twelve years with a lashed and festering back, Birdi had decided ladies were on level with boars. Something one kept a healthy distance away from.

“Ah, Lady Beth. She’s not particularly fair of visage, not like ye, but she has a heart as big as a keep.”

Birdi blinked in surprise. He was obviously taken with the lady—respected her, and if her ears weren’t mistaken Angus thought she—Birdi—fair! But how? She was filthy; she stank, and hadn’t combed her hair in three days. Minnie had been right about another matter...men were strange creatures. But this one was strange in a most interesting way. She need learn more.

“And what do ye do at the castle?”

“I command and train warriors at the lists, in sword play, and in defense.”

“Sounds far grander and more exciting than my life.”

He chuckled and she again felt vibrations—pleasant and alarming—ride down her spine.

“Nay,” he told her, “most nights I’m so weary I fall into me bed face first.”

Birdi smiled at that. He was a dedicated leader of men. ‘Twas good, but his darg—this soldiering—put him at great risk. She fingered the scar on her right wrist—recalled the second time she’s been called to the Macarthur’s side—and decided mayhap she should give the matter of Angus MacDougall and the babe more thought. 

~#~

Four hours later, Angus, frustrated beyond all civility, reined into a small grove that bordered the west bank of Loch Lomond. Through gritted teeth he growled, “We’ll spend the night here.”

He slid to the ground and reached for Birdi and the babe. Just as his hands encircled her waist, the goat bleated and Rampage, ears pinned, let fly a hoof. This time the goat landed with a mighty splash in the loch. Water flew, the horse immediately shied, and a hoof slammed down on Angus’s toes.

He rammed a shoulder into his mount. “Ye bloody idiot, get off me!”

Eyes ringed in white, Rampage backed, and Angus set Birdi down. “So help me God, if I survive this...”